“He’s mad—quite mad,” Ella declared, with a sigh. “I don’t believe we shall see him again to-night.”
Nevertheless, he was on the pavement outside the Rat Mort awaiting them, chaffing the commissionaire. He threw open the door and welcomed them.
“They are turning people away here,” he declared. “Heaps of fun going on! All the artistes from the Circus are here, and a party of Spaniards. François has kept our table. Come along.”
Ella hung on to him as they climbed the narrow, shabby staircase.
“Say,” she pleaded in his ear, “don’t you want to be a little nicer to me to-night?”
“Command me,” he answered. “I am in a most amenable temper.”
“Sit with me instead of wandering round so. You don’t want to talk to every pretty girl, do you?”
He laughed.
“Why not? Aren’t we all on the same quest? It is the ‘camaraderie’ of pleasure!”
They reached the bend of the stairs. From above they could hear the music, the rattle of plates, the hum of voices. She leaned towards him.